Time and Tide
by chrissie0707
Summary: Tag for 7X12 "Time After Time." It takes a bit of work from all three of them to get Dean to his feet and once there, his face almost immediately drains of color and he sways dangerously. It's not just from the time jump and the tangle with Chronos, and they all know it.


_Author Note: It's always bugged me the way this episode just sort of ENDS. Watching it the other day, I had some thoughts and ideas for a tag. Little H/C-y, little angsty._

* * *

 **Time and Tide**

* * *

" _Time and tide wait for no man." – Geoffrey Chaucer_

* * *

Jody might have seen an opportunity to threaten Sam with her Mom Voice before, but she goes ahead and pulls out all the stops once Chronos draws his final breath and Dean collapses against her, gulping and gasping for air of his own.

"Easy, Dean. Take it easy. Just breathe." She's pale and wide-eyed, speaking softly but clearly off-the-charts worried as she fumbles to loosen the tie knotted at his bright red neck, and Sam can't blame her.

 _Ethan choked the life out of that man._

They knew how close they were cutting it.

Sam steps swiftly around the body of the fallen god, crouches at his brother's side and throws Dean an encouraging, though admittedly shaky, smile. "I'd listen to her if I were you, man."

Dean snorts, maybe, but the sound gets caught in his swollen airway and nearly chokes him all over again.

"Easy," Jody gently reminds him, and this time Sam joins in.

"Calm down, Dean. We've got nothing to do and nowhere to be." And not for a good stretch of time, if he's got anything to say about it. But Chronos's last words have opened up a yawning, gnawing pit in Sam's stomach, left him with an ominous feeling he won't easily shake.

 _I know your future. It's covered in thick black ooze._

They can't STOP, but they can sure as shit slow the _hell_ down for a bit.

It takes a moment but Dean's breathing eases a bit, settles a few notches below the whining groan of ancient, rusty plumbing. With an influx of oxygen comes clearer eyes, and he seems to finally take note of the way they're crowding and holding onto him. He frowns and shifts, groggily brushes Sam's hand from his chest.

The defiant motion lifts a bit of the weight from Sam's heart. "There ya go." They help Dean into a seated position, and Sam doesn't miss the flash of pain that crosses his brother's face as he shoves against the floorboards, or the way he draws his right arm into his lap. _Noted_. "You good?"

Dean swallows, winces. "Yeah," he says, a raw, tortured noise that contradicts his words. "Yeah, I'm good."

Sam narrows his eyes but nods. Dean sounds like shit, the bruises coming to color around his throat are worrisome in their location and implications, and he's favoring his right arm in a way that has Sam itching to give his brother a proper once-over. For now, he pats Dean's knee and smiles, taking in the wool overcoat and snappy blue three-piece suit beneath. "When you're feeling better, we're totally having a talk about these clothes." He raises his gaze. "And the hair."

"Shut up," Dean rasps. He coughs, groans, and tries to rolls away.

Jody isn't having it, tightens her grip on his shoulders and keeps him on the floor. She works her jaw, jerks her chin. "What're we gonna do about him?"

"I said I'm good."

"Not you," she returns lightly, whacking Dean affectionately in the side of the head. "I mean mister time-god over there."

Sam bounces on his heels, spins back toward the body of Chronos. He just looks like a _guy_ , with blood slowly dripping and pooling beneath his parted lips. Almost on cue, the body begins to age – years piling up and tearing him apart until he crumbles away into a pile of dust.

 _Huh._ Time catching up with him, Sam supposes, though it's something of a frightening thought.

Jody takes it pretty well, considering. "Wow," she says, raising her eyebrows. "That was…convenient."

"Yeah. Don't get used to it." Sam shifts his attention back to his wheezing, red-faced brother. "You ready to get vertical?"

It takes a bit of work from all three of them to get Dean to his feet and once there, his face almost immediately drains of color and he sways dangerously. It's not just from the time jump and the tangle with Chronos, and they all know it.

"How long's it been since you ate something?" Jody demands, in what is unquestionably that Mom Voice she'd threatened. Her fingers visibly tighten where they're wrapped around his upper arm.

The corner of Dean's mouth curves upward. "'Bout sixty-eight years ago, I guess."

She clearly doesn't find it at all funny, eyes narrowing as she steers him in the direction of a chair. "I'll find something."

Sam feels his brother shaking at his side as Jody clomps her way out of the room. "Here, sit down," he says, and presses down on Dean's shoulder so the man knows it's more of an order than a suggestion. He studies his brother, chews his lip. Dean's been worrying him for a while, since well before Bobby died, and it's not often Sam's granted such a legitimate opportunity to express his concern. _Thank God._

They have a _lot_ to talk about, but for now he bypasses the details of their joint hunt, of 1944, of working with Eliot freaking Ness, and persists instead with the line of questioning that Jody got rolling. "When'd you last sleep, Dean?"

Dean's exhaustion finally catches up with him, making him sloppy and honest. He rubs at his forehead, wrinkles his nose. "Uh…at Frank's, I think."

Sam's head whips down. _Frank's?_ Dean hasn't had eyes on Devereaux since the thing with the vetalas.

Dean is quick to realize his slip, and moves to overcompensate by dragging himself to his feet to find higher ground.

Sam steps in front of his brother, pinning him in place in his chair. "Dean – "

Jody reenters the room at just the right moment to inadvertently bail Dean out, waving a pair of granola bars. "Found these out in the glove box. Minimally stale." She lifts a shoulder, offers the snack to Dean. "Probably."

"Yeah, thanks." Dean takes the bars with his left hand, and his eyes flick towards Sam with one guilty-ass look as he does.

* * *

Jody glances up as Sam pushes open the back door with the low _creak_ of a rusty hinge, and quietly asks, "Dean sleeping?"

"Yeah, finally." Sam tosses his hair from his forehead, sinks onto the stoop next to her. He exhales, the warm puff of his breath leaving a visible bloom in the chilly night's air, and settles his arms atop his tented knees. "Of course, I might've slipped him a little something to help."

Jody chuckles like they're in cahoots – which he supposes they sort of are – and sips from a glass of amber liquid. Even in the dark, her cheeks are visibly pink, evidence of the time she's spent out here in the cold. "You should get some sleep, too, you know."

"Yeah, right back atcha." Sam rubs his palms along the thighs of his jeans, generating some warmth. "When are you heading back?"

"In the morning." She bobs her head, swallows. "Or, the _actual_ morning, anyway. I'd stay if I could, but, uh…I just wanted to make sure you boys are okay before I take off."

He dips his chin, surveys the darkened yard. "Yeah, we're okay."

Jody nods, takes another long sip.

Sam turns to her, and recognizes the look in her eye as easily as he does the bottle of Johnny on the concrete next to her boot. "What's up?"

She's been having a rough go of this, ever since their paths first crossed a couple years back. She's not really IN the life, but even tightrope-walking the outskirts has brought her nothing but solitude and secrecy and a trail of dead friends. Jody drops her gaze to her drink, taps a finger against the glass. "I just, uh…it's sort of a lot to wrap your head around, you know?"

Sam doesn't think he does; it's been a long time since something really – _really –_ caught him off guard. "What do you mean?"

"Zombies, monsters – okay. I get it. That stuff's real." She raises her eyes, finds Sam's. "But Chronos KILLED Dean, Sam. Lila was there. She remembers it. The only reason he's alive is because we were able to figure out when to summon the guy." She tilts her head back, blows out a long, stressed breath. "And all of a sudden, this all just feels way, way above my pay grade."

She's got a point, as much as Sam hates to admit it. This may actually have been their first successful sort of outing, but it isn't anywhere _near_ the first instance in which they've played with time. Hell, it wasn't too damn long ago they managed to piss off Fate herself, for their roles in adverting the apocalypse.

But Sam'll go nuts if allows himself to get bogged down in this sort of train of thought. Jody will, too. "You can't think like that."

Jody snorts. "Sam, I can't _not_ think like that."

He sighs. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

She drains the rest of her drink and pours more whiskey into the glass, finishing off the bottle just like they'd agreed. She offers it to Sam.

He takes it, stares down into the glass. "So, uh, I know you're not used to this whole…thing that we do. But we don't usually sit outside the houses we're squatting in."

Jody leans back, splayed hands planted against the cold concrete. She quirks an eyebrow. "What're the neighbors gonna do, Sam? Call the cops?"

* * *

His big brother's been blessed with a special brand of selective self-awareness, which is alternately amusing and extremely _not_. Dean never has any idea what Sam's talking about when he says "you look like shit," but he knows almost immediately when he's slept longer than he's naturally prone to do.

The entire time they're loading up their most-recently boosted car, Dean shoots him fleeting, betrayed glares but saves his voice, which, as demonstrated when they parted ways with Jody, has graduated overnight from the rasp of rustling pages to something akin to sandpaper scraping across brick. He's moving slowly and stiffly, his cheeks seem flushed from more than the biting winter wind, and he relinquishes control of the keys to his brother a hair too easily for Sam's liking.

There's no real _plan_ outside of more of the same _,_ more of keeping off of the grid, and Bobby's got a cabin tucked away not too far, just south of Des Moines. It's still a decent ten-hour haul, and by the time they're lugging their duffels into the surprisingly generous-sized cabin it's pretty obvious that Dean's not just hurting from the scuffle with Chronos, and not just torn up about losing Bobby the way he's been for the past month. He's sick.

Sam drops his bag to the floorboards just inside the door, and almost can't believe he's about to ask. "You all right?"

"Mm." Dean raises his eyebrows as he searches out a light switch and surveys their new digs.

Nothing against Bobby or his homemaking abilities – or the decided lack thereof – but the hunting cabin is larger, and _nicer_ , than either of them was expecting. A wall-length stone fireplace splits the main space, framed by two narrow but tidy-seeming couches. Behind the fireplace, squat steps lead to a second sleeping area.

He follows Sam's lead, then follows the duffel all the way to the couch cushions with a decided lack of grace or coordination. "I'm super."

He doesn't sound _super_. He sounds pretty damned _sick_ : tired and gravelly and congested.

Sam frowns, sets about searching the space for firewood. "Dude, I think you caught a cold. In 1944." He also _died_ in 1944, and Sam's suddenly never been more on edge by the threat of the common cold. How the hell are they supposed to know whether or not Fate once more decided it's time to get her hands dirty where the Winchesters are concerned?

Dean drops his head, keeping his right arm tight around his middle, and rubs at his temple. "Yeah, well, I'm just glad that's all I caught."

"What?"

"Nothin.'" Dean raises his head and squints, the overcast sky beyond the picture window still bright enough to aggravate what seems to be a killer headache.

Sam moves across the room, draws the moth-eaten curtains closed.

"Hmm."

He raises his eyes, starts at the sight of Lucifer leaning casually against the wall behind Dean, propped next to what is presumably the bathroom door.

The devil cocks his head appraisingly. "Big brother's not looking so good."

It pains him to agree, but Sam can't really argue that assessment. Dean's been frighteningly distant since Bobby died, and singularly focused on hunting Dick Roman. He's hasn't been sleeping right or eating well, and he's been pale and drawn so long Sam's almost grown used to the exhausted look. And that doesn't make him feel any better.

"He looks like hell." Lucifer chuckles, amused with himself. "We would know, Sam."

Sam swallows. "Maybe you should get some rest, man."

Dean sighs, drops both hands to dangle between his knees. "It's just a cold, Sam."

"I'm not talking about the – " Sam clenches his jaw, and _maybe_ stomps his foot. The _clomp_ of his boot echoes against the paneled walls. "The god of time nearly strangled you to death, Dean." _DID strangle you to death._ "Plus whatever's up with your arm."

"Yeah, _nearly_. I'm fine. And there's nothing wrong with my arm."

His brother is a man prone to racket and abrasiveness, but sometimes, it's all about subtlety and delicate observations when dealing with Dean. He'd chosen this morning to steer clear of his traditional layered look, has long sleeves pulled uncharacteristically down to his wrists.

Hiding something. The swelling of a strained or wrenched joint, or some nasty bruise.

On the periphery of the room, Lucifer shakes his head, _tsks_.

Sam nods tightly, feeling pissed despite himself. His eyes drop to the cooler he'd brought in with the bags. "Beer?"

"Yeah, sure."

It's almost adorable, how quick Dean is to accept the assumed olive branch.

Sam stoops and pops open the cooler's lid, drags a can free of the ice and without ceremony, pitches it at his brother.

Dean's eyes widen and his right arm comes up reflexively the catch the beer, and he immediately grimaces, drops the can to thud atop the woven area rug with a tight _pop_. "God."

"Yeah, you're right." Sam raises his eyebrows, opens a beer of his own and takes a leisurely sip. "There's absolutely nothing wrong there."

"I'm _fine_ , Sam." Dean clenches his jaw, holding his right arm snug to his chest. He jerks without warning, turns his face into his shoulder and looses a quick succession of deep, wet coughs. All in all, it's not the most effective way to back up his statement.

Sam drags his hands through his hair, then throws a frustrated gesture in his brother's direction. "Look, Dean, you want revenge for Bobby, and I can get on board with that, I want it too. But running yourself into the ground isn't going to do anything but get both of us killed."

"Sam – "

" _No_ , Dean. I'm not going to pretend to understand what you're feeling, but if you want your chance to kill Dick Roman – or die taking the son of a bitch out…" Sam pauses, shakes his head and feels a bit sick himself, for even entertaining the option. "You're gonna have to be strong enough to put up one hell of a fight. And, right now? I doubt you'd be able to take on his pet Yorkie."

Dean rolls his head on his neck and stares, and Sam stares right back, and the entire time he's thinking, _don't FIGHT me on this, Dean. LISTEN. Because you can't run from whatever is dogging you, not forever._ Pleas that seem much too reasonable and logical to actually launch at his brother. Dean won't hear _you're emotionally WASTED and I can see that you're barely hanging on by your fingertips_ , but he'll for sure hear _a five pound dog could knock your ass out with a feather right now._

"Whatever, Sammy." Dean rolls his eyes, coughs once more, and bends to unlaces and kick away his boots. "Dick Roman doesn't have a Yorkie, and if he did, he already ate it." He gives up all pretense and coughs again, a rough, absolutely _pathetic_ sound that lets Sam know that his brother isn't just now realizing he's sick. He flops against the couch cushions, wads up his jacket and jams it under his head in a makeshift pillow and shows Sam his back.

Sam glances down at the beer in his hand, no longer wanting the drink but not having anything else to do with it. The can slowly warms in his grip as he stands there in the middle of the room, not moving until Dean lets loose that first rattling snore. Then he sighs, and scrubs roughly at his own tired, worn features with his free hand.

Lucifer pulls up from the wall, sticks out his bottom lip and offers his arms. "Does somebody need a hug?"

Sam averts his eyes, but knows he won't win this game of keep-away forever, can't continue to fight the constant itch and pull of the shattered remnants of the wall in his head. This, too, like everything else trailing in their wake, will catch up to them. He's sure to be dragged away in the tide of pain and hellfire eventually.

It's all just a matter of time.


End file.
